Pierre had carried her in his arms many a time in the years gone by, and now he took her up gently, and laying her upon the couch, brought a pillow for her, and fixed it under her head, and covered her with her shawl, and put fresh coal on the grate, for the November night was cold and chill, and outside the first snow of the season was beginning to fall. “Now sit down by me, Pierre,” she continued “and rub my hands, they are so numb and lifeless, and let me talk to you of the olden time, when we lived in the country and were so very happy.” “Yes, mademoiselle,” Pierre said sitting down beside her and rubbing and chafing the limp white fingers which seemed to have no vitality in them. “Pierre,” she began, “we were so happy when papa was alive; he was so good. He was always kind to you, was he not?” “Yes, always.” “And he was good to everybody, Pierre?” “Yes everybody.” “And—and—you were with him in places where he would be under less restraint than when with me, and you think he had as few faults as most men, I am sure?” “He had not a single fault,” Pierre said, emphatically, lying easily and unhesitatingly, thinking the end justified the means. He knew now that Reinette was wishing to be reassured of her father’s truth and honor, and though he had but little faith that his late master had possessed either of those virtues to an overwhelming degree, he could not say so to the daughter; he would sooner tell her a hundred lies, and take his chance of being forgiven by and by. “Thank you, Pierre,” she said. “You make me so happy. I like to think of father as a good, true, honest man; and I believe Christine was good.” “Did the servants at Chateau des Fleurs ever mention her as other than a nice woman?” “They never mentioned her at all. I never heard her name except from you and monsieur, and from him only twice—once in the office of Messrs. Polignie, and once in Liverpool.” “Yes, Pierre,” Reinette said, with a quick, gasping breath, “I am sure Christine is a good woman. My mother trusted her and bade father be kind to her always. I have it in a letter written before she died, and when Christine was with her. Mrs. La Rue is a good woman.” She kept asserting this as if she feared Pierre might doubt the fact, but if he did, he gave no sign, and merely replied: “She must be good to be the mother of Miss Margery.” “Yes, Pierre,” and Reinette roused herself up, and pushing her heavy hair back from her face, said, joyfully: “I see it now; I understand why she has not told me. She did not wish Margery or me to know that she once served in the capacity of my nurse, lest she should feel humiliated, and I, with my abominable pride, might think less of her; that is it, I am sure.” “Unquestionably,” Pierre said, ready to assent to anything his young mistress might suggest, no matter how absurd.